violets and tea

A friend recently swore by tea for African violets. She said her grandmother brewed a pot of ordinary tea about once a month and once it cooled, she watered the violets -- always from the botttom -- with the tea.

Has anyone heard of this? No matter how far I google this, I can't find any references online to tea and African violets, except as a popular beverage imbibed by fanciers wherever they gather to see and talk about African violets or other gesneriads!

about men...

Couple of observations that have me puzzling....

Seems younger men these days enjoy going out with much older women, while older men tend to seek out much younger women. Generalizations are never safe, but, what's that all about?

Seems the most important criterion for men seeking women is proximity, within a radius of 50 miles or less! Could I have fun with that one!

Men often claim their "interests" are moonlit walks on the beach, cuddling, long conversations while sharing a good bottle of wine....Yeah, right! Pretty funny.

arrangements at the fair 

foliage & flowers at the fair 

flowers at the fair 

odd synchronicity

Does it ever happen to you?

I swear this is true! I wrote about my determination to add running to my exercise regimen to up the cardio value of what I do. Then, I go to the laundromat and find stacks of what? No kidding: I found magazines from The Running Room, with all sorts of fascinating articles! How bizarre is that? And what I found even more weird was that there were no other magazines at the laundromat that day, just these magazines on running.

This happens to me often. When it does, I think I should pay attention. Don't you??

all that glitters... 

all quiet at the fair 

first prize 

the lovely Isabel 

child & piglets are not on the same page 

child saying hello to Isabel, the donkey 

ducks with ducky 'dos 

horses & riders competing 

a handsome fellow 

cochin 

artwork 

a shy pair 

a special chicken-hairdo 

more great hairdo's 

artwork

the fair

I went to the fair on Friday. It wasn't at all early -- I'm not an early morning person. But still, the fair wasn't busy. I found parking easily. The rides were silent. Many of the vendors hadn't even opened up for business. The horse events were in progress. In the little petting-zoo, the liveliest activity was in the pens of the goat and piglets, the goats watching the comings and goings of the people, the piglets rooting for food in the hay.

The judging of the poultry had started.

I watched the judging of the poultry for a long, long time. A single judge had to look at hundreds of birds. He would reach into a cage, grab a bird, hold it upside down to look at the feet, then spread out each wing, one at a time, to look at the feathers. Often, he looked at the back end of the chicken as well, maybe ruffling up the tail feathers. Then he would pop the bird back into its cage. Then, with a black marker, the judge wrote a number on some of the cards attached to each cage. After a while, I noticed a woman following behind the judge and his assistant, stapling a ribbon, sometimes a red one, sometimes a blue one, onto the cards the judge had marked. She began to talk to me.

Candace commented on the importance of maintaining the existence of the old breeds, how the Canadian horse was taken to the U.S. and modified into the Morgan and looks more and more like a Standard bred today (I only vaguely knew what she was talking about). Fairs like this, she said, are what keep some of the old breeds going. The pure breed needs to be put back in, once in a while, she said. Someone came along and took over the stapling of ribbons for her.

When I told her my name, Candace laughed and said she has a Finnish friend whose maiden name she cannot pronounce. When I asked, she began to give me all sorts of advice on how to start out with chickens. When I mentioned that I had actually never held a chicken, she called George over.

George opened up a cage holding some white Silkies with blue skin on the face, and voila: I was holding a chicken! Just a little nervously! Amazing how light the bird was ( the size of the bantam breeds). Candace thought I should avoid the breeds with feathered feet (messy). George, on the other hand, recommended the Cochins (with feathered feet) for their docile nature. Next, George got a lovely colourful little bantam rooster for me to hold. I marveled at the detailed colouring on the feathers. I got some hints on how to hold onto the feet with one hand while holding the bird's weight in my other hand. Candace assured me that eventually, I'd be able to accomplish all this with just one hand.

When the rooster started to struggle away from me, flapping his wings, I was surprised to find I wasn't the least bit alarmed.

Later, I happened to sit at a picnic table beside George and his wife to eat lunch. When I asked if the judging was over yet, George said it would probably continue well into the afternoon. The judge handled each and every bird, of hundreds! Now I understood why, when I had arrived, there wasn't any crowd, no anxious owners of the birds who I had thought would be there to watch the judging process. I had noticed the judge examining the feathers and Candace had told me the standard colouring must be on the feathers, on every single one. One black feather on a white breed and it's out. Obviously, I have a lot to learn. Candace had also told me that years ago, there had been so many poultry at the show that their cages had been stacked three-deep. George also told me that it isn't what it used to be, as his wife nodded in agreement, that there used to be so many poultry to judge, that it took two judges in the old days. George kept repeating: "this judge is handling every single bird", and seemed to be impressed with his thoroughness. He repeated what Candace had told me earlier, that if I wanted to see lots of poultry, I should be at the Royal in November. His wife nodded.

I met a lovely lady leading a donkey, Isabel. When she's at home, Isabel guards the lady's sheep from coyotes, wolves and bears. Isabel is very smart and friendly (except to dogs) so the lady thought Isabel would enjoy the fair and children might enjoy petting Isabel. I petted Isabel. But Isabel was not at all impressed with my attentions. She could see the horses participating in the events across the way. Isabel kept manouevring herself to better see the horses, and would have gone over there to say hello, if she had been allowed.

I met Macoumba, originally from Senegal, who was selling African art, clothing, jewelry and drums. Ah, how I would have loved to buy one of the drums. I liked the idea before I even heard Macoumba play one. After hearing the deep, resonating sound, I wanted one even more, sigh! He had rigged up an interesting affair to add a tinkling, cymbal-like sound to the drumming. On the side of his drum he had secured three pieces of sheet metal about the size of my hand, stiffly protruding outward, like petals on a daisy. Holes pierced around the rim of each piece of metal held small metal rings. These vibrated, jingling like "bells" on a tambourine, whenever he struck the drum, adding their own raspy sound to the deeper sounds of the drum.

Macoumba spoke with the charming round accents of west Africa. His skin was so black it almost looked like velvet in the cold autumn sunshine. He laughed, even white teeth in a broad smile, commenting on the chill in the weather. Instead of sleeping in the tent, as is his custom, he said he had had to spend the previous night in his vehicle to keep warm!

I made a brief visit to the crafts and produce displays, marveling that the "most unusual houseplant" was just like my own fuchsia which had spent the summer on the "back" porch. I admired a few quilts and some weaving. I chuckled at the artwork from various school classrooms. Then I took the long way home, to enjoy the fall colours.

re-reading

So, anybody who didn't read Twisty's review of Samantha King’s book, Pink Ribbons, Inc. , do go and read it. She makes so many good points about our society and health care, I had to go back and re-read it.

You might be tempted to say, oh, her comments are about American Society, not Canadian Society. For Canadians who believe they enjoy universal health care, let me point out that the working poor most likely do not get paid sick days at work, or extended health benefits of any kind. Most of us Canadians are blissfully unaware of how expensive health care is. (I personally know people in the U.S. who supposedly had great health insurance, whose benefits ran out, the insurance companies refused to cough up more money, and these people lost their homes etc. as a result of serious illness. In addition to a large number of people who cannot afford health insurance, many in the U.S. are under-insured.) The working poor without added health benefits are in dire straits, in Canada as well, universal health care or no. There are countless expenses that come up when a person becomes ill, and social welfare does not cover many of the gaps for the poor who are not poor enough to qualify for assistance. And those poor enough to qualify, will tell you if you ever bother to ask, that the process is cumbersome, demeaning and the assistance never enough.

Not exactly on topic, but in the rural area where I now live, I wonder: there must be many migrant workers who are in Canada who are injured or become ill. It is rare, very rare, that you see them get medical treatment. Why? If they are here legally, they should be covered by OHIP, should they not? Do they not know this? I'm not sure what's going on, but my gut feeling is that they do not know their rights, or they are afraid to exercise their rights. They are brought here to do hard work that few Canadians are willing to do. Perhaps they are also disadvantaged by the different language, and the prejudice against them for their colour and/or countries of origin. Who knows?

This is only one instance of the people who are "missed" by a system that is supposed to be universal.

Yet, all too many of my acquaintances are quite willing to write off the "outsiders" as undeserving, lay-about, probably criminal elements, who "take advantage of the system". I have to remind some people at my paying job all the time, when they start complaining about "immigrants", that I'm an immigrant. (I guess they forget that fact, because I don't speak with a foreign accent and I'm white.) Their response: "Yeah, but you're different; you're not like them."

Oh, and so who am I like?? pray tell! I certainly don't fit into the "traditional family" pattern of man, woman, 2.2 kids with 3 gas-guzzling SUV's in the driveway of a 3,000+sq.foot home cheek-by-jowl with other 3,000+sq.foot homes in a suburban housing development that has eaten up acres and acres of the limited arable farm land we have in Ontario. Those are the same people who get so damned uncomfortable because I'm not part of a couple, I like sex, I don't have a full-time paying job, I associate with and enjoy the company of all kinds of people, and I don't talk about shopping 24/7. I laugh, because time and time again, they are confronted by my differences, but no, they deny it. I'm ok, a little eccentric, but not like them.

So, yes, the pink campaign that appeals to the shopaholic, the people who are led to be super-consumers, still so unaware of how they are manipulated, smug in their pink-middle class security, that lets the misogynist, xenophobic, money-worshiping, patriarchal society off the hook, that pink campaign makes me mad!

out of shape

Molly and I are out of shape.

Now that the cooler fall weather is here, it's easier for me to imagine running. So, I thought I'd start a gradual training regimen. The yoga does increase my heart rate a bit, but I think I need more cardio in my life. Remember, I noticed that I got quite winded when playing skipping with Granddaughter!

When I started out this morning on my run, Misty and Molly begged to come along. I had my doubts about Molly being able to keep up, but then, I had doubts about my own abilities!

Sure enough, about half-way around my chosen course, Molly fell far behind. I even doubled back once to see where she was! When I finished my run, I walked back to my favorite grapevine for a snack of sweet, sweet grapes. Still, no Molly.

Finally, quite a long time later, I spotted Molly slowly making her way up the laneway. Walking back to meet her and encourage her along, I found an exhausted dog covered in mud! I figured she had stopped for a drink in some of the puddles along the way, but couldn't quite understand why she was black with mud!

As we made our slow way back to the house, we encountered more puddles. Molly slurped up a big drink, then flopped, hindlegs splayed out, stomach down, into the mud! Ah-haa! Mystery solved.

We made our way back home this way: walking slowly along until the next mud puddle, drink, flop, pant-pant-pant! or walking slowly along until a shady patch of cool grass, flop, pant-pant-pant!

I can't decide if I should take her with me on my next run or not. Obviously, she has become de-conditioned over the summer, as I had not been taking the dogs for walks as frequently, while the mosquitoes in the woods were so vicious. I'll have to go for daily walks with Molly, in addition to my daily training regimen, to get her in shape. Hopefully she can better keep up with my runs, soon. The cooler weather will make things easier for her.

Misty would have been ready to run 10K or more, today!

fall fairs

I wish I could say these photos are mine, or even better, that the chickens are mine. For ages and ages, I've wanted to keep chickens. The more varied and weird their colouring, the better. No, they don't have to be weird. I'm more interested in healthy, happy chickens of the traditional breeds. They should not be the over-bred, uni-purpose chickens that can't even stand up...

Guess which displays I always visit at our local country fall fairs??

Look for my new wish list update soon ;)

municipal elections

The landscape is dotted with the various signs asking me to vote for this or that person in the upcoming municipal elections.

I have to admit, I'm still quite in the dark about local politics. In fact, I'm embarrassed to say that because I drive all over the municipality, I'm not even quite sure which person on the signs is a candidate for my ward...

Local papers are scarce on details. The rhetoric is colourful and even vitriolic. It is often directed at the provincial and federal governments. Perhaps it's assumed (by those who have always lived here) that everybody knows everybody (and what they stand for) already. (I am a newcomer, after all.) However, I'm willing to bet that most people know more about who represents them at the provincial or federal level, than here locally, where perhaps it might have a most direct impact on their lives! ( I'm even willing to bet that our citizens are more familiar with, say, President Bush, than Prime Minister Stephen Harper.)

One of the most amusing things I ever saw was Rick Mercer's interviews of supposedly intelligent Americans, asking their opinions on fictional/mangled political/geographical "facts".
Sadly, I happen to know that Canadians are pretty much just as poorly informed, even about their own country and politics. It takes the individual effort of citizens to become informed for a democracy to work.

So, very much in the dark about actual local issues--other than the retro-wishes of those who want de-amalgamation of the City of Kawartha Lakes -- I have been wondering how to become better informed. The all-candidates meetings sound promising. I plan to be there.

restlessness

The power is out for some 90,000 hydro customers across central Ontario. It's cloudy, with sunny periods, with strong winds, gusting from 30 to 60 km an hour. The garage door, although latched, keeps getting tugged open by the wind and there it is, open again! It has jumped off the track in the past, assisted by the wind, so I'll have to lock that door, I think! But I have to get ready to go off to the city soon, to my paying job, so, I'll do that just before I leave.

I slept in later than usual. I'm not an early riser anyway, being accustomed to going to bed late. But this morning, I think the sound of the wind had me exhausted before I even got out of bed! The house is old and rather run down, but if the windows weren't open a bit, I would not have heard or felt the wind at all. For an old house, it's pretty snug against the wind. No, maybe there is the restless current of energy about, agitated by the wind, and I feel it through the soles of my feet right into my bones.

I thought when I did finally get out of bed, the leaves would all be gone off the trees. Enough of them are still green enough to be clinging to the trees however, so that there is only a little lightening of the space overhead.

I caught the tail end of something on CBC Radio about children learning through play. Then on the Vinyl Cafe, a story about daredevil kids building a ski jump...Aren't the best stories about play always the ones where we remember an little daring in the face of danger? And I've heard from more than one source that many school playgrounds now sport signs such as "no running"!

It seems that there is always this tension in our societies: the urge to keep everybody "safe" fighting against the urge to break loose, have an adventure, do something new, think a new thought!

As my son and I prepare for our trip to Ethiopia, I am getting anxious emails and letters from my parents about their own scary experiences when they lived in Ethiopia, almost 50 years ago now. The stories are wild: traveling with an armed guide/translator for fear of siftas, hospitals and homes looted and burned in the rioting during the troubles...On the other hand, I have friends and acquaintances who have traveled to Ethiopia much more recently and who claim it's very easy and safe these days (I understand this is a relative concept; when in my parents' day, there were no roads...).

I suspect that my mother never really liked living in Ethiopia. Although she was raised on a farm in Finland, this was too remote and rough even for her. She loves traveling, but "the country" was what she aspired to leave in her youth. For years after we left Africa, my father dreamed of returning. My mother's emails are frankly afraid for us and she can't understand why we want to go. Her memories are of constant heat and dirt, or endless rain and mud during rainy season, insects, and disease. Of course, her perspective would be different because she was at home, trying to keep a brood of little children healthy, clean, clothed and fed. My father's stories are funny, self-deprecating. He had to travel to remote places in the way of his work, often on foot, so actually had some dangerous experiences. However, my father's only suggestions are ways to be better informed and prepared before we go off to have our own adventures in Ethiopia.

I was musing about the differences of their experiences during the War as well.(WWII) My mother was 14 years old when refugees started arriving from Karelia. She did not have to attend school. She remembers a time of fun and music because she was young and enjoyed the arrival of the refugees. There was a cloud of suspicion and mistrust too. Strangers were on the roads. She remembers sleeping in an outbuilding in the summertime, the summer night still bright, her imagination conjuring up all sorts of dangerous, nefarious types skulking about...My father on the other hand, saw and heard too much: weapons, dying, dirt, bugs, deafening noise, tense waiting, winter misery in the trenches, corpses swelling in the summer heat...

How do our experiences shape us? I guess we can't predict that. Only hindsight might give us one or two clues.

In the meantime, I'm restless, anxious to finalize the plans and get on our way to Ethiopia.

not pink, pissed

I hate it when my most cynical intuitions about an issue are proved right. For years, it was with a lot of misgiving that I watched the development of the "Look Good, Feel Good" campaign with the very corporations who are quite likely the very ones that produce the products containing the toxic chemicals that are so strongly linked to breast cancer. (check your antiperspirant -- it probably contains some forms of parabens) Then, corporation after corporation has started to sport the pink ribbon and promise that some portion of the profits goes to breast cancer research.

People want to do something. They hate to see their friends or family suffering or losing the battle to this terrible disease. But they do not respond to the suffering of men who have this disease. They do not understand that there may be several other diseases that a woman is far more likely to contract and die from. They pay no attention to the hundreds of thousands of women who are dying of AIDS in Africa and other parts of the world. Where's the pink ribbon campaign for them?

I'm not in any way suggesting that if you have a burning desire to do something you shouldn't be applauded. But do it intelligently. Make sure the corporation you are donating through is accountable, that they aren't contributing to the problem, that your donation is going where you intend it to go.

Even better, lets get back to what should be the true goal of Health Care: 1. promoting health, 2. preventing disease.

On "Ontario Today", on CBC Radio today, Thursday, Samantha King was on the show. She is the author of Pink Ribbons Inc: Breast Cancer and the Politics of Philanthropy, a book that warns people to watch out for corporations using breast cancer fundraising as part of their marketing campaigns. While King took care to point out that much good has been done by making breast cancer a topic that can be discussed in public where it once was only discussed in whispers (men suffering from the disease still generally hide in shame), and lauded the efforts to find less traumatic treatment, she did question why so little focus is on prevention.

A caller mentioned a group that I believe started in California (correct me if I'm wrong, because the coffee pot gurgled louder than the radio at this point) whose slogan is: I'm not pink, I'm pissed! Anybody know more about them?

What strikes me is that on some inner-gut level, many women realize that our society brings this disease upon us. Read the heart-wrenching reaction of Twisty, when she found she had breast cancer in 2005. Coincidentally, Twisty also blogs about King, on Sept. 19, 2006.

gardens & BLUE!

Below, couple pictures of the garden outside the Train Station Gallery, Fenelon Falls.


I've discovered I love blue. Oh, I'm still loyal to yellow, but it goes well with blue, doesn't it? After seeing it used in some interesting ways in gardens from England to the Pacific Northwest, I've decided I want more blue in my life. Just look at this wonderful bench outside the Train Station Gallery in Fenelon Falls, for example!

train station gallery

One of the most interesting businesses in Fenelon Falls, which I've failed to mention until now, is the Train Station Gallery, on Lindsay Street. A cooperative of fifteen artists and artisans has been operating this wonderful gallery now for two years.

A site steeped in history,the building has been freshened up and maintained in keeping with the aesthetic qualities of its period. Over the years, whenever I passed through Fenelon Falls, the building always attracted me. I believe it was occupied by the Chamber of Commerce before the Artists' Co-op moved in.

Sadly, the gallery will not be open after the end of September. This is a great pity, as many reasons for shopping there are coming up, in my life at least: birthdays, Christmas...And there is a lot to choose from at the gallery, at great prices. Imagine picking up an original painting for around $200. There is also a great selection of photographs, pen and ink drawings, watercolours, pottery, stone sculpture, jewelry, quilting and weaving.

The member artist on duty at the gallery, on any particular day, will usually be working in his/her medium. The artist I met on my first visit was quite happy to talk about the problems and the process of his painting-in-progress.

Well worth a visit, the hours are Friday, Saturday and Sunday from 10:00 a.m. to 4 p.m., until the end of September.

soapmaking

Well, I thoroughtly enjoyed myself today giving a soapmaking workshop to a couple of friends. It is always an adventure, making soap from scratch, the old-fashioned way (well, not really old-fashioned, ie we don't stand over a cauldron of wood ash and home-rendered tallow...).

As you can see in the photo above, the recipe we used was based on a recipe from a book by Sandy Maine, and the mold is a tupperware container. Cutting uniform bars is problematic with this type of mold, but being the type available easily to many first-time soapmakers, it's what I chose to use today.

What do I mean by soapmaking being an adventure? It's more of an art than a science. What I mean is that no matter how many times I make soap, or how carefully I try to weigh out the ingredients, the process and results are always slightly different. That is part of the charm for me. It's almost like bread-making, how the weather, or maybe even your own mood, affects the results. Maybe some obsessively anal personality would find it maddening, but to me, that's the real charm of handmade soap. Most of the time, even though the process seems to wobble from crazy-fast trace for one batch to hours of stirring for another batch of the same recipe, you still end up with a pretty decent batch of soap in the end, one that you can be pretty certain of as to exactly what went into it.

For those who know me, it comes as no surprise that I'm very sceptical of the safety of most of the crisply uniform bars of commercially available soaps. They are more accurately called 'cleansing bars', as most of them are not actually "soap" in the oldfashioned sense of the word. Perhaps my luddite leanings make me a little suspicious of detergents, emulsifiers and preservativesthat make these cleansing bars work the same in any kind of water, maintain their hardness and have a shelf-life of ??forever. I know they do not leave my skin feeling the same as my own handmade soaps. I never hesitate to use my own soap even on my face, something I would not do with most commercially available soaps because of the drying effect they have on my skin.

OK, I'll admit it, I have always love mucking around with stuff, making things with my own hands -- especially when it is nice-smelling stuff!

Anyway, luddite or no, there is a wonderful piece of farm-machinery beside the old drive-shed on the property that has absolutely lyrical lines, a repetition of graceful curving tines that I think might be called a harrow. After another pot of tea once our soapmaking was done, my friends and I went for a short walk, and I pointed out this wonderful piece to them. It might more accurately be called a tool or implement, rather than a machine. I think I may have posted a photo of it before, but bless me if I can remember when or where! Ah, Friday, March 24, if you want to see what the h--- I'm talking about. (for non-Canadians, a way to swear without people knowing is to spell it: h, e, double hockey sticks)

I showed my friends the one yummy-tasting wild grape which grows along the drive. One of my friends picked bunches and bunches and took some home with her. I meant to give her lots of the basil to take home too because with frosty weather coming, it will end up on the compost pile because I don't like it dried much and the freezer is full. I have tried preserving it in oil, etc, but lets face it, it is not going to waste on the compost pile. It will turn into beautiful compost that will nourish my gardens, maybe even next fall at this time of year!

It was with great relief that I read the comment in an herb book by Patrick Limathat the surplus is just fine put on the compost -- I still feel a twinge of guilt about "waste". Ah, me. Will I ever be free of the guilt??

adventures

St. Mary's, Ontario

St. Jacobs, Ontario

As you can see, I enjoyed a little road-trip this week, making a detour on my return from business in London. I very much regretted that it was so late that most things were closed. But then I would have had so many places along the way back to choose amongst to visit, that it would have been just as frustrating, or worse.

Tomorrow, I am looking forward to doing a little soapmaking workshop here. As I've already made a batch of soap that should be ready to unmold and cut by tomorrow, the house smells deliciously of a blend of essential oils. Then, in addition to that, I cut some fresh lavender for a tiny bouquet in the dining room. It's amazing how potent fresh lavender is.

The garden is getting a bit tidier. I was able to straighten out some of the paths and lay down a mulch of 4-5 layers of newsprint, secured with some old straw, to keep the weeds down. Some of the beds that I was able to weed, I have covered with black plastic to, hopefully, keep out the weeds 'till spring. The black plastic will also bring on the warmth just a bit faster in those beds next year. I must plant my garlic soon.

For a really frightening (for us amateur gardeners) look at how intensively 'real' veggie gardeners do it, second and even third later crops in addition to the early ones, check out some of the English 'allotment gardeners'. I'm learning so much by reading some of their blogs! Allotment 21, Clodhoppers, and Dave's Allotment are just a few of the examples.

the sows

I guess they are not really purple, are they? My tricky memory mixed them up with the purple trim on the green paint job of this popular restaurant/watering hole in town, the "Cow and Sow". These wild paint colours bring me fond memories of Newfoundland. I lived near and worked in St. John's from the mid 70's to the mid 80's, with it's colourful wooden houses, and lively street scenes, that are still to be found, thank-goodness. If you drive straight through Fenelon Falls, you miss seeing these pigs in the window facing the side street. Now, you can say you did see them!

flowers & purple pigs

More sights from Fenelon Falls:

One of the local banks has this great planting on the south side of the building. Each year, it's a little different, but someone has had a great deal of fun blending these cheery colours together. What do you think? Are you as tickled by this as I am? (again I'm frustrated by uploading photos to Blogger.... so, here are some of them...the purple pig later)




The brick looks about to fall outward here, though. It's a common enough problem with raised beds. It seems the builders rarely incline the walls inward enough or build them thick enough to compensate for the opposing force on such high walls...

more homework

Chris Corrigan passed on to me the link to this great article in Psychology Magazine about the Sudbury Valley Schools. If you want to participate more actively, go to his site and get his "Great Canadian Homework Ban" seal. Further in his article of 2006 09 06, he provides a link to a site where you can create your own seal (adapt it for the U.S., or other countries where kids spend too much time on homework, and too little on playing).

He again provides many links to people who have written or researched this topic. Better yet, he provides links to people who are providing some concrete things parents in the midst of this struggle can actually use.

As the Psychology Magazine article pointed out, many parents would not be comfortable with pulling their kids out of conventional schools to homeschool them/unschool them or to send them to schools such as the Sudbury Valley Schools. The parents that I am acquainted with who have opted out of regular schools for their kids are 1) very well educated themselves so therefore perhaps more open to irregular educational opportunities 2) unconventional or bohemian or eccentric in their lifestyles 3) or very committed religious types. Their children have done quite well and have, on the whole, been happier and more self-motivated in all aspects of their lives as a result.

Perhaps that is why I myself am so open to the idea. My parents immigrated to Canada specifically to be able to take advantage of private religious schools for their kids. Before they had the opportunity to do so, I was already "bucking the system" in Finland by never attending school on Saturdays. Even years later when I was in university in France, I encountered some parents who had been arrested in other European countries and jailed for not sending their children to school on Saturdays. I'm grateful that in my experience, Finland was pretty tolerant. I never felt harassed or belittled by teachers or fellow students for the peculiarities of my parents. In fact, many fellow church-members misunderstood my parents' motivation for emigrating, warning them that it would not turn out to be the "land of milk and honey" they assumed my parents were seeking (ie better opportunites for wealth!).

However, any parents who inform themselves on the issues and the research, are likely to conclude that regular school systems must, at the very least, be more responsive to the actual innate desire of children to learn and take more care to avoid enforcing the "norm" to the point that it squashes the incentive of even the most "studious" type of kid.

The worst thing is that many kids who are "failing" in conventional schools are not stupid or without incredible talent. However, in one way or another, too many of them have been pushed out or failed out or dropped out, because the school system has failed them. A great many of these kids go on to lead productive lives, inventive, problem solving, participating in their communities, but stigmatized because they "failed" out of school. The statistics regarding the drop-out rates are frightening. Schools really, really need to look at what they are doing to kids. Or maybe we should get bolder about pointing the finger at where the trouble actually lies and demand more of those who purport to be able to determine the future of our kids.

Sturgeon Point Union Church

I mentioned this church briefly before. Here are some more pictures of the building, which I find fascinating. I apologize for the quality of some of the photos, but I included them so you can see some of the architectural details in the interior (shot through the window), like the central pillar that supports the roof. Hope you enjoy the pictures.

reclaiming ourselves

In a conversation I've been having with some fellow bloggers since posting "how dare I?", several thoughts have come to me.

I did wonder: should I post this on my other blog since it's a spiritual question? No, although this blog is loosely about my garden, it is also about my life and it's ups and downs.

I think at the basis of my struggle has been the fact that I was taught to trust in something external to myself, God, authority, experts. Naturally, in relation to all these externals, I never measured up. It did not help that the target was always moving as well, in relation to the perceptions or definitions of the adults in my life. As I started to discover these inconsistencies, I was a very angry adolescent, because it was as if the rug had been pulled out from under me. I embraced the values and beliefs I had been taught for a few years, but when I was about 24, it just became unbearable. Turning away didn't happen overnight, but the process was started and took several years.

Then followed many years of trying to keep my head above water, wanting something, not sure what it was, and all the while determined not to go back 'there', to the blind trust of my youth.
My children were young, I was working full time and I was so tired all the time, I barely had the energy to secretly dream. Always, I continued to dream.

What did I dream about? Gardens. Gardens were always a big part of my dreams. Gardens filled with beauty, sweet scents, music, silence. Gardens that would be places where people could meditate, play, make things, grow things, accomplish things, relate to other people, share, and most importantly, heal. Even now, as I tell you this, my idea of the gardens I want to create is so close to my very core that it brings tears to my eyes.

(excuse me for a minute: sniff, sniff...)

About 20 years ago, a very dear friend came into my life and with her came some light at the end of the tunnel. She thought I was great, she thought I could do all sorts of things and every word that came out of my mouth reminded her of a book or person that seemed in some synchronous way to be meant "for me". During those years, I left my marriage. It was not easy. But after years of blindly feeling alone, I was mercifully finding support and understanding from the most surprising people in my life, and I was regularly led to pick up and read writers and thinkers who were on my wavelength, or who were able to gently nudge me to look at things from a new and needed perspective.

The most important thing was that gradually I began to trust in my own, personal, deeply spiritual path. It was ok. I'm ok. I began to practice love and forgiveness toward myself. I learned to adore my own creative instincts. And as I began to express myself again, my desires and actions were upheld by my community and the universe.

As I look back on the last 20 years, all the upheaval and heartache, I can consistently point to incident after incident where the only explanation is Divine intervention: the shoulder to cry on, the prods to go out on the town, to a concert, the books, the friends who consistently were in "my corner", the friends who shared lonely Christmas dinners when the losses seemed to hurt the most, the opportunity to move out of the city, the new friends who have come into my life, even my move to this farmhouse.

Strangely enough, it took being broken into pieces by the dissolution of my marriage for me to give up the pretense that I was ok, even though I felt thorougly and miserably like a failure, slipping further and further behind, "safe" behind my protective walls. Having no recourse but to say "I'm having trouble here," allowed me to accept the kindness and love of all sorts of people who had been waiting all along to give me love and kindness and understanding. Over and over again, I heard the words "I've been there!", and I started to realize that the miracle that we all share is our frail humanity. That realization, when I finally forgave myself for not being some paragon drawn from external values, allowed me to begin loving myself for myself.

It has taken some time to see how my varied interests mesh together into what I dream I will create someday. And although I have no idea how or when or if my dream gardens will ever come to be, I happily continue to dream. BIG! And along the way, I'm having fun talking about my interests to anyone who is interested. And I'm learning things from all these fascinating and knowledgeable people!

Just the other day I commented to my mother that even a year ago, when I read a book on gardening with native plants, too many of the plants were totally foreign to me. This is all despite the fact that about 10 years ago, my best friend and I belonged to a garden club concentrating on native plants. Living in an environment surrounded by fields and woods has allowed me to become better acquainted with some native plants in the wild.

This is all to show me that my journey is still unpredictable but fun. It was always meant to be fun. I mean, fun for me. I'm quite sure gardens and plants etc are not fun for lots of other people. As Joseph Campbell said: follow your bliss. Maybe I'm finally learning that that is ok, that that is what I'm supposed to do. That's the best gift of myself that I can give the world. My dream of my garden may be bigger than my ability as I am now, alone, to bring it about, but again to quote Joseph Campbell:

A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than
oneself. --The Power of Myth

.

cool nights

The Thai basil is crowding out the pimiento (I think it was a pimiento ) pepper. My rhubarb is pretty happy too. (note to self: plant more varieties of hot peppers next year.)

The evenings are getting so cold now that I am starting to bring some of my potted plants indoors from their summer sojourn. Maybe I'm not acclimatized myself yet, to the cooler temperatures to come, but I thought it felt positively icy this evening when I let the dogs out for their last bit of business.

In came the hibiscus, fuchsia, Swedish ivy, bay, pelargonium, white sage and rosemary. I should have brought in the Lion's Tale, and the 'ice-cream' pots too, but they are just too heavy. The plants in those big pots will have to be lifted out into smaller pots that I can manage more easily. Then those big pots may be decorated with greenery or simply cleaned out and stored away over the winter -- I haven't decided yet.

What with tidying up the vegetable garden, the raspberry bed, the weeding and mulching I have to do in the existing perennial beds, plus finishing the digging up of the new bed in the back, finding new homes for the recovered bulbs, digging out the vanilla grass and planting it up in the tin tubs with -- hey, some of the bulbs, why not! --...I'm not sure I have enough to do, ha-ha!! Maybe it's time for me to find a garden helper! (am I sounding a little frantic??)

Oh, I also want to see if it's possible to rent a chipper/shredder around here. That would be marvelous for making quick work of the garden refuse and some of the partly decomposing stuff already on the compost pile. Ahhh. A gardener's gold: mulch! Ok, maybe compost is gold and mulch is ...awfully nice to have lots to put in the garden!

Sissinghurst

After a rain, the colours of the marigolds and sage are so intense!

For daydreaming about gardens, here's inspiration!

importing seeds into Canada

Hmmn. A new wrinkle has come up for me. I'm trying to remember if I have ever ordered seeds from an American (or any other country) before. Seems to me I have -- I know I have -- but it was so many years ago, the regulations may well have changed since then. So I tried to check. This is the Canadian Food Inspection Agency site regarding the ABC's of Seed Importation Into Canada, where wiser minds than mine can check it out. See if I have understood things correctly and let me know (please!) if I haven't, because I'm about to tell Kim in the U.S. how to mail me some seeds!!

Doing my best to interpret the "legalese", I have concluded that small amounts of seed are exempt from permits and fees provided that the weight of the seeds is small enough!

The following are exemptions: (referring to the "Import Declaration Form (Form 4560)" and the " Request for Release Approval Form")

1. Where the imported seed lot is 5 kg or less for large seeded crop
kinds such as peas, wheat, soybeans and corn or is 500 g or less for small
seeded crop kinds such as alfalfa, tomato or canola, neither the import
declaration information nor the certificate of analysis need be supplied. See
Section N (below) for clarification of importations with multiple small seed
lots.
2. Where the seed is being imported for research purposes or for
conditioning, the certificate of analysis need not include information on the
percent germination.
3. Certificates of analysis and import declarations are
not required for lots of herb seed that are 5 kg or less, or for flower seed,
tree or shrub seed, true potato seed, ginseng, seeds of aquatic plants or
onion/garlic multiplier sets.
4. For non-pedigreed seed of forage species,
the name of the variety need not be supplied on the import
declaration.

For the purposes of calculating fees:
"small
shipment" means an imported seed shipment that weighs less than
5 kg, in the
case of large seeded crop kinds; and
500 g, in the case of small seeded crop
kinds.
There are no fees for the small shipments described above

At the Seed Site (based in the UK), on the "Seed Harvesting" page (tools of the trade -- harvesting, storing and exchanging seed), the author has many great tips. Another place I have to investigate in more depth!!

For plant parts, eg. roots, I have yet to check up on regulations. I do know that importation of things like potatoes, garlic and the like is likely to be complicated.

Oh, and before I forget, a very cool link from Kim on winter sowing.

how dare I?

We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of the divine idea which each of us represents ~~Ralph Waldo Emerson

It has occurred to me as I made my wish list ( see sidebar), that I was most definitely taught that asking for and even saying what I want is rude. The nerve. The greed. A very large part of me still struggles with those learned habits of thought, of judging myself.

Instead, I am trying to teach myself a new habit of thought, unlimited, hopeful, optimistic, even knowing that the world is a place of bounty. Any gardener should know this: things want to grow and expand. Seeds are produced in profusion, roots spread out. Things multiply.

What kind of polite, nice religion taught me that I should not do the same? In learning that I should not, unfortunately, I also learned that "the divine idea" which is me is something I should be ashamed of, that the best thing I could do is to shrink somehow. Imagine that. How antithetical to the natural order of things is that, to be taught from the moment you are born that you should shrink! Oh yes, you should work hard, help people out and be grateful, but you should not stand out, be proud, ask for anything.

Don't get me wrong. This was not the message that my parents meant for me to take out of their words; I know that. In fact, they are shocked that that is what I took from their words. Unfortunately, the mind makes up a lot of things, interprets things as it wishes. And the more "evidence" that appears to reinforce those beliefs, the more entrenched they become. This occurs even though the mind has a funny way of misinterpreting even the "evidence" of life's experiences.

Standing back and examining some of those beliefs reveals a lot of inconsistencies. So forgive me if I'm inconsistent. Forgive me if I make HUGE wish lists. I'm tired of being small.

thunderstorms & rainshowers

While I was trying to get a bit of work done in the garden this afternoon, the forecast thunderstorms rumbled through like a fast commuter train. As I heard the approaching thunder from the west, I kept hoping it would pass north or south of here, the way the storms consistently did last summer, but no. The wind came up, the dogs started barking, and it got quite dark. I brought the dogs inside just in time, even as big fat rain drops started to spit down.

It has passed on as suddenly as it blew through, with a few lingering rumbles, and some threatening licks of lightning along the back end of the thunderclouds storming on eastwards. The rain stopped, the sun came out, it rained some more. The scent of the air is thick, damp and green.
The rain stopped again and I think I will venture back outside, even though I hear more rumbling in the west. I am working on that new mixed border that will be alongside the thyme walk. More tawny daylily and creeping bellflower to dig out. More mystery bulbs (?daffodils) to retrieve. I'm about 2/3 along in getting rid of the sod in the area I envision becoming my new border, full of lovely shrubs, bulbs and perennials.

Want to see the progress I've made? You think it looks sad? Not if you could imagine, the way I do, the way it will look. I will be altering the shape it is now, getting rid of that curving bit to the right, so that it will ultimately be a rectangle. Perhaps another bed parallel to it eventually, separated by a gravel walkway between the two stones I put at the edge of the patio, with an arbor at the end? What do you think? Oh! I love daydreaming about how the garden might look someday.

Meanwhile, the vanilla grass, Anthoxanthum odoratum, (also known as 'sweet vernal grass') I planted in the bed by the "back" door is taking over. Hmnnn. I had no idea it was such a spreader. That tin laundry tub, that is so useful now in catching the daylily roots, could be a container for the grass. I wonder how the grass would overwinter in the container...hmmmmnn. .. I've got another tin tub like that, someplace around here. Maybe the pair of tin tubs planted with the vanilla grass to keep it contained, with some spring-flowering bulbs... By the way, it's one of the favorite grasses Molly loves to chew upon whenever she can.

According to the description in the Richter's catalogue, vanilla grass pollen does bother people with hayfever. The "hair of the dog", ie, a tincture of its flowers in wine is supposed to bring immediate relief.

street party!

I really don't know why it hasn't been done before. Here, an accident is the seed of an idea for a radical way for peaceful anarchists to create a street party whenever and wherever the tensions and pressures of city life get to be too much. Wouldn't it be delightful if I could persuade somebody to cut down a few of the volunteer samplings that shade my greenhouse out here in the country, by "permitting" their use as barricades for the street parties in the city to follow? Hey, I'm allowed to dream!

how to avoid work

http://www.writebackwards.com/ :ereh ti trevnoc dna ,ti etsap ,ti ypoc ,syas egassem siht tahw tuo erugif ot tnaw uoy fI .ti si sihT !emit yawa rettirf tsuj ro ,emoderob eveiler ,sksat gnirob diova ot syaw nuf gnidnif tuoba klaT

rude dog

Last night, just as I had decided that there was nothing on the news that I wanted to continue watching, Misty jumped off the couch and looked at me as if to say,

"Oh, you coming up to bed now?"

Suddenly, I could smell something awful. Oh-oh, I thought. Molly has had an accident. But it seems to be here in the living room where Misty was lying on the couch! Molly is innocently snoring away on her rug in the laundry room!

Well, Misty is usually a very clean and dainty dog, and I rather enjoy having her snuggle with me in my bed. But I was awaked a couple of times last night with the burning stench of her...ahem... emissions! With fresh fumes searing my nostrils, I could hear Misty gently snoring at the foot of the bed.

Behavior like this is rare, as I said, for Misty. So, sleepy and tired though I was, I was able to laugh at what I am willing to put up with from a beastie that I love.

Fenelon Falls, part 2

.... continuing our trip around some parts of Fenelon Falls from Monday, the "last day of summer":

The tourist Information office operated by the local Chamber of Commerce is above, where Water, Oak and May Streets intersect.

Restaurants and shops can be found along May Street.

A boat has come down from Cameron Lake and has entered the lock. The water level is being lowered already. People walking along the canal and the lock enjoy stopping to watch the proceedings.

The water level drops lower... On weekends when the weather is nicer, the locks don't stop lowering and lifting boats up and down between the two lakes, and boats of all sizes line both walls of the lock.

The water exiting the lock churns up the water outside the lower gates of the lock.

The boat has descended to the lower level of the passage to Sturgeon Lake. The gates are about to open...

The lower gates open...

20 minutes

On the news today, there is talk about 20 minutes of physical activity in the classroom every day. Doesn't that seem odd? Will that make children healthier and help them learn better?
Again, we seem to be heading into reliance on the "leadership" of a teacher here, who must necessarily be trained and have some expertice in modeling physical activity as well as assessing the needs of the various kinds of children in the classroom.

My impression is that if you give kids space, a few simple toys like a skipping rope or a ball, kids will invent endless physical games on their own. Doesn't this sound like what recess used to be? I went to a small private school in Canada for many years -- back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth ;) -- and in lieu of "supervising", teachers often participated in the games on the playground or in the gym. It was play, a break, for everyone! And we had fun seeing the teachers playing.

Addressing physical exercise as another "subject" that must be slotted into an already overscheduled day seems unworkable. Taking a game, and then systematically "learning more about it" sounds immediately to me like: ugh! work!!

If you have any doubts as to how beneficial some of the retro- "simple" games of yester-year are, just try skipping with your granddaughter. My daughter and I did that with my granddaughter recently. My daughter works out regularly at a gym in the city. I do my yoga and walk. But both of us found skipping for just a short time left us quite breathless. Imagine that! Play as exercise. But don't bother telling the experts -- they won't believe you -- they have studied long and hard to find systematic and refined ways of implementing exercise and good old recess ain't it anymore!

giving my opinion

It was a little weird for me this morning, quite out of my normal expectations and routine. In the middle of doing my yoga, I got the call. Wait, let me back up. Chris was contacted by an Ontario news radio station, the Jeff Allan Show, 570 News, Kitchener, in regards to the homework topic. Chris passed them on to me and voila. There I was being asked my "expert" opinion. Well, I'm not all that impressed by experts. I am more likely to listen to people who are passionate and excited by their topic, people who are genuinely interested in what they are trying to express to you. But all that aside, I got asked. And I said what I could.

Fenelon Falls

It's a rather dark day to be photographing a town that gets very quiet once the summer and weekend people go home. It's a holiday Monday. Maybe the dismal day is actually appropriate, as already, tourist area or no, many shops remained closed today. Traffic was mostly in one direction -- south, towards the GTA. But come along on my little tour anyhow. We may have a light drizzle or two, it's not that warm, but at least the wind is still kind.

In the photo above, we are standing under the bridge of the main road (Hwy 121), and only road, through the town of Fenelon Falls, looking at the lower gates of Trent Severn Waterway Lock 34. To our right, Hwy 121 above us becomes Colborne St. heading north, and to the left, Lindsay St. heading south.

Looking downstream from the lock towards the channel that leads towards Sturgeon Lake.

From the locks, looking northwards along Colborne Street.

The falls and the power plant. The canal, blasted out of limestone, would be behind us in the view above. The Trent Severn Waterway, 100 years old in 2004, travels over 386 kilometres of navigable rivers, lakes and man-made canals, to connect the Bay of Quinte on Lake Ontario with Georgian Bay.

Fishing along the side of the river is popular. Some of the fishermen I met speak no English, come from places such as Korea. Peeking into one bucket, I saw only the minnows I assumed was the bait. Nobody was catching any fish.

the last day of summer?

It isn't officially. The last day of summer is actually Sept 21st, but the rhythm of the year here, with school traditionally starting after the Labour Day Weekend, makes it seem like summer is over. It doesn't help that the whole weekend has been a tad gloomy weather-wise.

As always happens on rainy weekends, the boat traffic has been pretty quiet from the locks in Fenelon Falls and down along the lakes. I thought I'd mosey into town and take some pictures of the locks and things. I'll get back to you.

unschooling

(Some days, I have to declare! uploading pictures or making a comment on blogger is very, very frustrating. I appreciate that it is a free service. Maybe it's popularity makes it unweildy?)

Chris Corrigan here and here, talks a bit about a huge problem I see many parents, at least in my area of Ontario, facing every night. Homework with the kids.

In my experience, I had homework from my very first days in grade one, but it was very much expected that I complete it by myself and it wasn't overwhelming (this is going way back, I admit, to my first years in school in Finland). The work concentrated mainly onlearning the alphabet, penmanship and a few math problems. We did, however, always have a pretty good idea of what was expected and what the topic was all about because it had been covered in school that day (what I seem to remember being more like half-days when compared with the school day of our Ontario kids today). I was able to get it done quite easily and then spend the rest of the afternoon skating on a nearby open-air ice-rink maintained by the city of Helsinki. I'm not waxing nostalgic here, because I know my memory is famous for being faulty!!

Coming to Canada, there were weird idiosynchracies in my education that caused some difficulty at first. While I had the language and could read better than most a whole grade ahead of me, my shyness and other personality traits caused problems. In the basic math skills, in penmanship I was way ahead. I had also learned a little about knitting, crocheting, embroidery and sewing that suddenly I no longer required. Spelling was a breeze for me, but suddenly I encountered this new senseless subject called phonics. Me, who always loved reading, hated phonics. Much later, in university when studying French, I grew to love knowing how words were put together.

Another novelty I encountered upon arriving in Canada was a two-grade classroom. I mention this because in my mind, it is linked to "History & Geography", which were taught in alternate years in that classroom. As my luck would have it, I ran smack into History, that first year. It was taught from a thick textbook of endless words and a few black and white photographs. There were all these dates to memorize -- when I had just learned to remember the date of my own birthday, it seemed. Those dusty dates were impossible for me to remember, having no relevance to my experiences. It was a disaster. I remember nothing. Geography the next year was a bit better, because I had a better grasp by then of "how things worked" in this classroom, and I was keenly interested in learning about this new country I was living in.

All this long explanation is my attempt to show that learning is very individual. I truly believe that all kids learn like thirsty sponges if they have even half an opportunity.

I hold my granddaughter up as an example. Of course, at my most fond and most un-objective (ie, subjective) level, I, like all her family, think she is a bloody genius! But as an educator, I realize that she is surrounded by people who love her and talk constantly with her about the world around her. She is absorbing it all, full of curiosity, trying to order it in her mind, making her own sense of it, sometimes to a frightening extent. (she particularly likes phrases and words that are "naughty" and elicit that horrified reaction from Mom & Dad!) And truly, I am already alarmed at the Junior Kindergarten level, how much homework she had, and how invested her parents had to be in some of those assignments, to the point that, as hurried as her parents are, they sometimes knew they had provided answers/solutions that she should have provided herself. And it is only going to get worse. In other words, what I was responsible for way back then and mostly did by myself, parents are taking on these days.

There was an exception or two to my independence with homework back in grade 1 & 2. Because of my parents' religious beliefs, I did not attend school on Saturday. Saturday was the day the teacher spent more time on the arts as well as the skills such as crocheting. As a result of regularly missing Saturdays, my mother, not the most patient teacher, struggled to teach me the basics of those skills. There was a knitted potholder that I believe she put the whole crocheted edging on, in her impatience! I remember even now the feeling that that left in me. And it is not a good feeling that I would want these young students today to be experiencing on the regular basis that it already, so very sadly, is.

So, what to do? As merely the grandparent, I have to sit on my hands and bite my tongue when it comes to being too opinionated about my own granddaughter, obviously! It's all very good, at the moment, while my granddaughter is delighting in school and mostly thriving. That is to say, I can mostly relax and I feel less impelled to interfere.(thankgoodness)

However, I know from experience what it is like to be the parent of a child that does not fit the mold, cannot meet the expectations at the exact time and in the exact way educators at a certain time and in a certain place require. This is to teach that a child with unique talents and wisdom is a failure. And that is so wrong.

The world is deprived of that child if the parents and child give up and don't realize that that child has so much to contribute, in a different point of view, in creativity, in skill sets, that a narrow approach shuts off, if we allow it. What the world needs, what industry and business need, (what they say they need but behave in opposition to, far too often in actuality) is a person with a fresh perspective, creative insight, skill in independent problem solving! The child whose spark is not extinguished in most school experiences, will go on to do great things in this world -- and maybe not in the way we expect.

So, public education being a grand concept, surely it is not the instrument that continues to create people who "passed", the majority who slide along the sanctioned path into obscurity, dull cogs in a sluggish machine, an army of unhappy people in an unhappy workplace.

How can parents, who are all suffering so, continue to take it? Do they not trust enough in their own common sense to collectively do something? Surely experience has taught us that "the experts" have often wandered too far into extremes of application of pedagogical theories in the past!

I encourage everybody to get involved. Discuss this issue with parents, teachers, politicians, business people, everybody! There are solutions. Individual decisions must be made that will suit you, and maybe, the time of a public education system's usefulness is over. How about a public university-level education system instead?

More on this topic from Alexander Kjerulf
The Myth About Homework, an article by Claudia Wallis in Time Magazine, Aug. 29, 2006.
More on the homework myth by Brian Alger.
Robert Patersons's Weblog, has here a plea for the end of homework. Read the discussion in the comments as well!!

Please read up on this. Think about it. Don't allow a generation of school kids to suffer through a hateful school career when it is so counterproductive!

purple sage

The whole group of plants called "sage" are numerous and interesting. Besides this, which I believe to be Salvia farinacea (in a pot on the deck and in the hanging baskets along the drive) and which I treat as an annual, I have the sage 'Tricolor' in the vegetable garden and a pink sage x sylvestris called 'Rose Queen', in the bed alongside the green house. I've grown many sages through the years and enjoyed them all, several of which are on my wish list for this garden.

rain

We are getting a steady drizzle of rain today. Molly has wisely retreated into her doghouse. Misty did her most miserable, trembly, big-eyed look to beg to get indoors. She is curled up on my bed as we speak. The damp along with the temperature of only 15 degrees C. is making me feel chilled. The clouds are high and bright, however, tempting one to believe that the sun might break through.

I wonder if the airshow at the CNE did come off? Anybody know?

I wonder how all my garden buddies did along the eastern seaboard of the U.S. where I see in the news the waters got quite high in several places.

Making the rounds of the plants around the house, mostly for my own enjoyment, I snapped this photo of the bay and white sage in the rain on the "back" steps. The white sage brought to mind my thoughts on ceremonies and symbols. Jim here at Juniper Ridge talked a bit about the places where white sage grows and about harvesting it for the "smudging" market (in 2005). Note that white sage occurs naturally in areas where there is increasing pressure from urban sprawl and harvesting it from the wild must be done with knowledge, ethically and legally!

The revival and reworking that some indigenous customs and ceremonies have undergone over the years, that some cynics might label hogwash, are, to my mind beautiful. They appeal not only to the new age seeker, the bohemians, but resonate because we all need rituals in our everyday lives that remind us of the mystical and mythical. And I believe we are all dying for a myth to give our lives more meaning, to add to the reenchantment of everyday life (as the title of one of my favorite books by Thomas Moore goes). While I have never used white sage in ritual, I did use some in attempting to make absinthe (unpalatable).

ha-ha. My absinthe-making-attempt brings me to the observation that I'm not an enthusiastic seeker of altered states of consciousness if the journey there is a torture test -- ie it tastes bad or I have to sear my lungs with smoke, etc! ha ha

On the other hand, I practice yoga nearly every morning. As well as being one great form of exercise, it is also my meditative practice of choice. The practice of yoga allows me to be better aligned physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. I benefit from the effects throughout the whole day.

long weekend

Blue Cohosh, Caulophyllum thalictroides. I tried to upload this before and couldn't.

This coming long weekend is the last big hurrah before school starts. The forecast is for cool, wet weather and the news was all agog with whether or not the Snowbirds would fly at the airshow at the CNE this weekend.

It won't be mattering much to me. I'm stripping some ugly wallpaper off the walls in one of the bedrooms. It's so ugly right now, I don't even want to take a "before" picture!

I'm having fun getting supplies in for a big soap-making weekend mid-September, when I'll be demonstrating the process from a to z. I also need to fine-tune my presentation for that.

So between those two projects, it doesn't matter if the weekend is cool and wet, if the Snowbirds fly or not, because I have work I can do indoors at home.